


The Old Pawnbroker

by mightymads



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: But also, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Dr. Watson's diaries, Drug Abuse, Established Relationship, Holmes and Watson’s backstories, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Hurt/Comfort, Schmoop, Valentine's Day, sassing each other endlessly, set in 1890
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-05-24 00:58:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14944652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightymads/pseuds/mightymads
Summary: When a concise telegram arrived to Baker Street, Watson took Holmes along to dispel Holmes’s ennui and distract him from cocaine. Such was the beginning of the case which made the doctor remember things he’d rather forget.





	1. A Visit to the East End

**Author's Note:**

> [Thanks to Sir Ian McKellen](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bGDXnr8YXZg), I have a headcanon that Holmes and Watson call each other by given names (at least at home) rather than surnames.
> 
> With deep gratitude to my beta [falsepremise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/falsepremise)

_February 13th._ —“‘Miss Morstan has done me the honour to accept me as a husband in prospective.’ Really, John?” Holmes laid down the freshly printed issue of _Lippincott’s Monthly Magazine_ , his eyes twinkling with amusement.

“A little fictional romance won’t hurt,” I shrugged my shoulders. “And it will serve as a diversion if anyone wonders why you and I have been living together for nine years, and neither of us has married yet.”

“What did the actual Miss _Morstan_ say about this?”

“She didn’t mind at all.”

“Your penchant for turning our cases into sensational literature is deplorable.” Holmes shook his head.

“But the public likes sensational literature,” I said. “And it’s a good way to attract new clients.”

“Portraying me as an unfeeling machine must also appeal to the public, no doubt,” Holmes said, raising an eyebrow.

“Precisely. It adds to the mystery and again prevents any untoward speculations. For heaven’s sake, Sherlock, why do I have to defend my writing every time?” I retorted.

Holmes laughed, and for a few moments his pale features brightened. I smiled back. I would gladly endure his teasing if it could help to dispel the deep apathy which had seized him after he had solved the previous case. Thankfully, there were signs of recovery: Holmes was sitting with me at breakfast and reading the morning post.

I often think how ironic it is that even in my diary I continue referring to him by his surname. It became a habit born of necessity to do so in letters and also in the published accounts of our adventures. There is no need to censor myself here, but the habit persists. The human mind is a queer thing.

Holmes browsed through the correspondence with an expression of a mild ennui, newspapers rumpled and tossed aside. My scribblings had not engaged his attention for long either. He rose and went to the mantelpiece; I already knew what for. I glared at him while he was taking a dose—ostentatiously—as if daring me to say something. But starting the day with a row would be pointless, for my remonstrances would have no effect on him. I picked at bacon and eggs on my plate gloomily.

“By the way, this might please you,” Holmes said, returning to the table and pushing a telegram towards me. It ran:  

> Found a ring matching your description. Pawnbroker’s at 10, Camberwell Road, Walworth.
> 
> _N_.

At first I stared at the message in confusion, wondering what it had to do with me, but then I remembered.

“My mother’s ring,” I gasped in disbelief.

“Perhaps,” Holmes said. “You can’t be sure until you check.”

“I shall certainly go there at once,” I said. “My appointments with patients start from half past eleven today, so there is still plenty of time. Would you care to accompany me? The weather is wonderful.”

“Why not,” Holmes replied listlessly.

We finished our breakfast and soon were in a cab on our way to the East End. Anticipation took hold of me. The ring, a family heirloom, had been lost long ago. Was there any chance to retrieve it? I couldn’t be at my poor mother’s side to comfort her in her last days. She had left me that memento of her, but my brother had pawned the ring, and it had been sold while I was still away.

The morning was chilly but windless, and smoke from chimneys was rising high in the clear blue sky. Sunlight was playing on the frosty windowpanes. The newly fallen snow shimmered, crunching under passers-by’s feet. Faces of people around were ruddy in the crisp air. The drive was quite refreshing to the senses, and some colour returned to my companion’s cheeks. He sat bundled in his heavy coat, his gaze distant and unseeing.

“Holmes?” I called.

“Hm?” He trained his eyes on me.

“How did you manage to trace the ring?” I asked. “Back then, when I came back to England, I learned the address of the man who had bought it, but he had moved out, and the neighbours knew nothing of his whereabouts. Advertising in the newspapers gave no results either as if he’d just vanished into thin air.”

“Yes, I remember you were upset about it,” Holmes replied. “I visited the neighbours in a disguise, asked them where the fellow worked, and found him in the docks. It was of little help. He had bought it for his wife but lost it in a card game the same evening.

“I went to the public house he named. Briefly, the facts are these: The ring had changed several owners over a few months, and apparently sailed away from the country with one of the seamen. There was slight hope that sooner or later it might emerge in a pawnbroker’s again. To tell the truth, I’m as amazed as you are.”

“But who would know which pawnbroker’s exactly and after so many years? Surely, the Baker Street Irregulars couldn’t do such a feat?”

“Oh, it is an acquaintance of sorts, returning an old favour.”

“Thank you,” I said, astonished.

Not only had Holmes stowed away my passing remark into his brain-attic, he had also looked into the matter. And at the time we had just met. It moved me so much that in spite of our being outside and in broad daylight, I ventured to slip my hand into his. A faint smile touched Holmes’s lips; he squeezed my hand and promptly released it.

“It may be a bit early for thanks, though,” he said.

We were now driving the shabby streets of the East End. On this clear sunny morning dirt and misery of bleak tenement houses was especially striking. It was easy to spot the pawnbroker’s by gaudy vases, cheap silverware, and various jewellery displayed in the dusty shop window. Over the entrance, there was a faded sign “BELLINGHAM” and the customary three gilt balls. A police constable was stationed by the door, warding off curious bystanders, and at the side of the road a hearse was waiting.

“Hullo, that’s unexpected,” Holmes muttered.

Having alighted from the cab, we made our way through the crowd. The constable recognised Holmes, so we entered the shop unhindered. A portly, florid-faced inspector turned around at the sound of the clinking bell.

“Mr. Holmes. Dr. Watson,” Athelney Jones greeted us in his booming manner. “What brings you here? There’s nothing unusual about this case. It’s just a domestic murder.”

Beside the counter of the semi-dark, cramped shop lay an elderly man, bald, wizened, dressed in a tattered brown suit. His pale eyes and his mouth were gaping, his wrinkled face contorted with a spasm of agony. The crown of his head bore a terrible deep wound; the death it had entailed must have been instantaneous. His collar was undone and the tie loosened as if he had been struggling for breath before he had met his end. A middle-sized axe, obviously taken from the rack with other pledged tools, was at his feet.

A woman somewhat younger than the dead man was sobbing, sitting on the chair in the corner of the room. The front of her plain, slate-coloured dress was besmirched with blood, as were her shaking gnarled hands. She was clutching a glass of water but too agitated to drink.

“We came by chance, regarding an item pawned in this shop,” Holmes said.

“I’m afraid this business of yours will have to wait indefinitely,” Jones replied.

“You won’t mind if Doctor and I look around since we’re here?” Holmes asked, already taking in details of the crime scene.

“If you wish. Although I doubt this occasion will find its way into another highly imaginative novel.” Jones gave me a wry smile. “Should I congratulate you on your marriage anniversary, Doctor?”

I did not dignify that with an answer.

“But what really became of Miss Morris—ah, Miss _Morstan_ , that is?” Jones continued. “If memory serves, some months after the incident she departed to America with the family which employed her.”

“So I heard,” I replied curtly.

“It seems that our arrival has interrupted you, Inspector. Pray continue with the interrogation,” Holmes said.

Jones huffed and turned back to the woman, whose sobs had subsided a little.

“Once again, Mrs. Bellingham, do you insist that you found your husband in the present state this morning?” he asked.

“Why, yes, sir. I retired yesterday as usual, at ten. George has a habit o’ stayin’ up, ye see, for there could be belated clients,” Mrs. Bellingham said in a trembling voice. “We ha’ separate bedrooms, sir. I often don’t even know when he’s finished. I am a heavy sleeper and didn’t hear anything at night. When he didn’t show up for breakfast in the mornin’, I called out for him, but it was all quiet in the house.”

“You haven’t got a maid or an assistant?”

“No, George won’t hear of such expenses, he won’t. I went downstairs, and there he—he was a-lyin’. I thought I could help, but he was already cold—”

Her gaze travelled to the still form on the floor, and she burst into a violent fit of crying. Jones crossed his arms over his chest, looking impatient. I had a bottle of sedative in my bag, so I poured a few drops into Mrs. Bellingham’s glass and had her drink it.

Holmes, meanwhile, examined the body, the axe, and the space around, his keen grey eyes bearing no trace of languor, his movements deft, cat-like, full of energy. Time and time again I witnessed this transformation and couldn’t but marvel at it. Intense work would inevitably bring a severe reaction upon him, yet it also dispelled his black moods faster than anything. I joined him to observe the victim’s wound more closely.

“Was anything stolen?” Jones asked Mrs. Bellingham with a resigned air as if going through a formality.

“I didn’t notice. It appears not,” she stammered.

“Well, then, the picture is as plain as a pikestaff, and this performance is quite useless,” Jones asserted. “You’re all covered in blood, Mrs. Bellingham, and your footprints are everywhere. The people who called the police were hardly surprised, for the whole neighbourhood had been constantly disturbed by the rows of an ugliest sort between you and your husband. This morning must have been no exception, and here’s the outcome—”

“No!” Mrs. Bellingham shrieked. “I was telling the truth! We didn’t get on sometimes, but I would never kill him, I wouldn’t, I swear!”

“Sergeant,” Jones said to the policeman who was taking notes.

Handcuffs clicked upon the wrists of the pawnbroker’s wife. She was white as a sheet, shaking and weeping.

“One moment,” Holmes said. “If nothing was stolen, what’s this?”

From the open collar of the victim he pulled out a piece of string torn off at the ends and held it up between his long, thin fingers.

“Great heavens, his purse is gone!” Mrs. Bellingham gasped. “The poor dunce was so obsessed with money he carried large sums in a purse on his chest.”

“And how would you explain this?” Holmes picked up in the other hand a flat rectangular parcel about the size of a cigarette case, neatly wrapped in white paper and tied up with twine.

“I don’t know. Never seen it before,” Mrs. Bellingham replied earnestly.

“It lay beside the body,” Holmes said. “Mr. Bellingham must have tried to open it but only managed to loosen the knot which was very tight.”

“Let me,” Jones said, taking the parcel.

He turned it over in his hands, grunted, and started fumbling with the knot.

“What the devil,” Jones wheezed, “easier to cut it, ‘pon my word.”

Finally, the paper rustled, and when Jones looked inside, his chubby face lengthened.

“It’s a trifle unrelated to the murder. I don’t have time for this.” He scoffed and shoved the opened parcel back to Holmes.

It was a steel plate tied to a piece of wood. No markings, no inscriptions, absolutely nothing to give any clue as to the purpose of this odd item. It appeared to be some sort of a practical joke.

Holmes frowned and glanced at Mrs. Bellingham. She shook her head.

“I would also like to draw your attention, Mr. Jones, to the fact that the murder took place earlier than this morning,” Holmes said. “The blood was already thick and clotted when Mrs. Bellingham stepped into it.”

“He’s been dead for about nine hours,” I said.

“Exactly.” Holmes nodded. “The candle on the counter burned down to the socket. Now to the wound. The blow was made top-down, which means that the murderer was much taller than the victim, whereas Mrs. Bellingham is obviously short.”

“The parietal bone is badly broken, and the skull is twisted a little to the side,” I added. “Gravity was at work here, but still, such blow required a considerable strength which Mrs. Bellingham cannot possess.”

“Thank you, Watson. The weapon was carefully chosen among the tools on the shelf,” Holmes continued, gesturing towards the rack. “Not too cumbersome like this iron and not too light like this hammer. It was the one which ensured the fastest result. In other words, Inspector, it’s a calculated robbery rather than a crime of passion, and the culprit is a tall man, not the lady you arrested.”

“God bless you, sir!” Mrs. Bellingham cried.

“An interesting theory, Mr. Holmes, but, as usual, far-fetched,” Jones sneered. “There is no need to invent something fantastic. They had a row. She accidentally snatched a suitable tool, probably hit him on the leg—an examination at the mortuary will show—he fell, and she split his head open.

It makes no difference: she killed him not today, but yesterday. Then she fainted with the shock, came to only in the morning, and wailed in terror. The purse she hid, for she stated herself at first that nothing had been stolen, didn’t she? Sergeant, take her away.”

“No, no, it wasn’t like that at all,” begged the unfortunate Mrs. Bellingham while the constable was ushering her to the door and out, to the police van which had arrived.

“I suggest that you search the house and verify pledges with the ledgers,” Holmes said. “Perhaps more items disappeared, or perhaps you’ll find the purse if she hid it, as you say.” Holmes almost snorted. “Come now, Jones, you’ve always had a reputation for a diligent approach to the matter,” he added when Jones grimaced.

“Very well,” Jones conceded. “But since it’s your idea, you’ll help with the search because I don’t have enough people, and there’s a lot of domestics in town.”

“Certainly,” Holmes replied, undeterred.

“It’s eleven already,” I said, with a glance at an old clock on one of the shelves and then at my watch. “I must be off to make it to Mr. Archer in time.”

“Then see you later at Baker Street. I shall stay,” Holmes said, giving me a pointed look and suppressing a smile.

Excessive exertion in his weakened state was undesirable and could interfere with his recovery. He, of course, couldn’t care less if a case engaged his attention.

“Holmes, are you sure—” I started to object.

“Go to your patient, Watson,” he cut me off.

It wasn’t a place to argue, and so I went to my patient. According to the schedule, I had actually four: Mr. Archer with an exacerbation of gout, Mrs. Prescott with dropsy, and the Upperton twins with mumps. It was a journey to another world of a respectable, conventional life which shunned the grotesque and bizarre, which gave some sense of normalcy, and which was filled with routine and monotony.


	2. A Chase in the Dark

_February 13th, continued._ —I returned home at about four in the afternoon to find Holmes curled in his armchair, puffing at his clay pipe and humming a Brahms piece. He was a different man from the broody and sombre one of the morning.

“Well,” I said, smiling, “have you compared all items in the shop with the ledgers?”

“Not all,” Holmes replied enigmatically. “We discovered something more interesting.”

“Oh?”

“The ancestral jewels of the Rossiters, John! The tiara, the necklace, and the bracelet—half of the set stolen from Lady Rossiter on the liner _Etruria_.”

“Good Lord, that recent scandal, only a few months ago. Then this shop secretly trades stolen items!” I lit up my pipe too and took a seat in the opposite armchair.

“So it seems.”

“But tell me everything about it, where the jewels were hidden and all.”

“There was a concealed compartment in the cupboard under the stairs, absolutely undetectable if you don’t know where to look. Only the absence of dust near it gave me a hint.”

“To your ever observant eye, of course it did,” I said, proud of him.

“Thank you.” Holmes flushed a little. “I think we can still catch a large fish with this bait since it wasn’t taken. Whoever killed the pawnbroker obviously didn’t finish what he started. I had Jones tell all newspapers that the search would take place tomorrow and persuaded him to make an ambush in the shop tonight. You know, the way you portrayed Jones in your novel is more kindly than he deserves, for this blundering fool mentioned the shortage of people again and assigned only one constable. Will you come with me?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I said.

“Excellent. Let’s have dinner, rest until evening, and set out at nine.”

“What about an examination at the mortuary, though? Has it been carried out yet?”

“Yes. The old man _was not_ hit on the leg.”

“ _Quod erat demonstrandum._ ”

“There is another point that interests me,” Holmes said, producing from the pocket of his dressing-gown the small parcel he had found at the crime scene. “Look. Foolscap paper of average quality, twine has no distinctive features either, a steel plate fastened on top of a piece of wood with plain black thread—everything is as nondescript as it can possibly be, and yet what does it mean all together?”

“I have no idea. What if Jones is right, and it has nothing to do with the murder?”

“Then why was it there?”

I had no answer to that question. I’m writing this and wondering what will come out of our endeavour tonight. Hopefully, something, so Holmes won’t get bored.

 

 _Follow-up._ —Now I have time to describe the events of the night before. My bruise still hurts, but the game was worth it.

We arrived to the pawnbroker’s at half past nine, a sturdy police officer named Taylor with us, and entered the house through the back door. Holmes had Taylor hide behind the bookcase not far from the front door while he and I took our position in the dark recess under the stairs, right by the cupboard in question, intending to catch the criminal red-handed.

We were prepared for a long vigil, and as usual, at first the anticipation of danger was exhilarating, but as time went by, the wait grew dull and wearisome. The recess was quite narrow for two grown men; Holmes’s warm breath against my cheek and his side pressed to mine kept my senses alert, but I didn’t allow my thoughts to stray in a certain direction. I had to stay focused. In the silence of the house the sound of a grandfather’s clock striking hour after hour came from the rooms above.

It was approximately a quarter past one when the lock of the back door clicked softly in the distance. Holmes grasped my hand, conveying that I must be ready to act on his mark. Our hearts thumping, we were listening to stealthy, quiet footsteps entering the room, then approaching, then passing within inches of us, and finally stopping in front of the cupboard. My eyes had adjusted to the semidarkness, and the silhouette of the intruder was so imposing that I could discern him without effort. It was a man over six and a half feet tall, of immense physique, and surprisingly agile for his bulky frame. The man opened the cupboard, put out various items that were on the central shelf. Then, judging by the sound of it, he slid an inner wall sideways and began rummaging inside.

Holmes gave my hand a sharp squeeze and pounced on the man who was too preoccupied to be fully on guard. After a short struggle, my companion twisted the intruder’s right arm behind his back while I grabbed him by the left and put the barrel of my revolver under his chin.

Taylor dashed to us, handcuffs ready, but suddenly the man made a dexterous move and writhed himself out of Holmes’s grip, hit me in the solar plexus, and sent Holmes hurtling in a heap with Taylor. All happened in an instant—I staggered, unable to breathe, my middle burning, as the man swept past me. There was a loud bang of the back door; Holmes sprang to his feet and darted after him, naturally ignoring the fact that they were in absolutely different weight categories. A few gulps of air later I followed them, but they were too far, the man several feet ahead of Holmes. Taking aim in the dark wasn’t easy. I did my best and pulled the trigger. The shot rang out, echoing in the quiet empty streets. The man yelped in pain and stumbled. Holmes caught up with him, felled him on the ground, and they grappled fiercely. My abdomen still burning, I sprinted to them as fast as I could, for Holmes’s opponent was formidable in spite of the injury.

At last, panting, I ran up to them and shoved the pistol against the man’s head.

“Don’t move,” I warned.

The man snarled but froze, and Holmes disengaged himself, a deep gash bleeding on his left cheekbone.

“Taylor, handcuffs!” he shouted to the constable hurrying to us.

Taylor threw them over to Holmes, and Holmes fastened them on the man’s wrists; then we led him to the four-wheeler which was waiting for us in the side-street.

“Nice shot, Watson, my dear fellow,” Holmes said, grinning, and slapped me on the back.

At Scotland Yard, Inspector Bradstreet was on duty and much surprised that our ambush had yielded such a result. I needed proper light to extract the bullet from the injured man’s leg and tend to the wound, so Bradstreet put his office at our disposal.

Finally, I could get a good look at the ruffian. He was dressed in working class attire and had closely cropped brown hair and a short beard. His coarse and heavy features were set in a stony expression, his bushy eyebrows furrowed. Three more policemen were called in lest he try anything reckless. Eager to start an interrogation, Holmes wouldn’t hear of my attending to his gash, so I handed him a cotton wad soaked in antiseptic which he deigned to press to the side of his face.

“Harvey Figg, a pugilist, a weightlifter, a rough, and now a murderer,” Bradstreet drawled.

Figg scowled at us, shifting his huge arms with bulging muscles.

“I didn’ kill ‘im,” he grumbled under his nose.

“You were looking for the jewels, however,” Holmes said.

“I jus’ came for what was righ’fully mine,” Figg snapped, his voice loud and defiant.

“Rightfully yours!” Bradstreet croaked, laughing. “You killed the pawnbroker to take his purse and came to finish the robbery.”

“Why would I take ‘e dough I gave ‘im meself? ‘e old minger ‘adn’ gotten all yet, bu’ someone done ‘im in, so I came for me ‘alf,” Figg blurted out. Then he faltered and fell silent.

He flatly refused to speak further, and Bradstreet ordered to lock him up, for the hour was very late. Holmes and I decided to call it a night and went home in the same four-wheeler that had brought us to the Yard.

Holmes looked like a ruffian himself, his coat covered in dust and dirt, his hat gone, and his hair dishevelled. Yet his eyes were alight with energy and thinking. Back at Baker Street, we let ourselves in, ascended the dark stairs, and entered our sitting-room. It was so good to be home. I was bone-tired whereas Holmes displayed no sign of drowsiness. Apparently, he planned to stay up and ponder over the new details. My mind was racing too, and it was necessary to unwind first or I wouldn’t be able to sleep. We took off our coats and jackets, loosened our ties, and undid our collars. I sank down upon the settee with a blissful sigh.

“Brandy?” Holmes asked, smiling.

“If only a little,” I replied and stifled a yawn. “Say, Sherlock, why didn’t Figg take the jewels as soon as he paid for them? Considering that he wasn’t lying about the money, of course. It would’ve saved him the trouble of going back for them. Have you any theory?”

“Perhaps it was a spontaneous murder after all,” Holmes said, pouring brandy for us both. “Suppose the pawnbroker obtained the jewels after the payment and informed him that only a half was available. Figg wished to cancel the deal, which led to an altercation and bloodshed. He panicked, took the remaining money, and ran off. Later it occurred to him that he had forgotten the goods, so he had to return.”

“Yes, that’s plausible,” I said and nodded my thanks as Holmes gave me the glass and joined me on the settee.

“However, it bothers me.” Holmes frowned. “Figg is an old hand, a thug through and through. Why would he panic, having killed someone, even in a fit of rage? And remember the parcel. All my instincts tell me that it played a vital role in the matter.”

“Perhaps you are overthinking. I’m quite happy with your explanation,” I said and downed my brandy.

“Perhaps, perhaps,” Holmes replied, laughing, and drained his glass too. The gash on his cheekbone reopened and started to bleed again.

“Now I shall attend to that,” I said, got up, and went to the medicine chest before he could object.

“It’s nothing, a scratch from Figg’s signet ring when we were wrestling,” Holmes said, gazing at me gently as I was tending to the gash. “But how are you? You got a nasty blow.”

I put the cotton wad into the emesis basin on the coffee table, and then unbuttoned my waistcoat, shirt, and undershirt. A dark bruise was already forming on my abdomen.

“I’ll live,” I concluded.

Holmes reached out his hand, and the gossamer touch of his thin, sensitive fingers wasn’t painful at all. Our eyes met, excitement from the chase blazing up again in his blood and in mine. The simmering tension both of us had kept at bay in the ambush broke away unleashed. Our lips collided, teeth clashing, as we embraced and clutched frantically at each other’s clothes.

“Let’s go upstairs,” he breathed.

“Yes,” I whispered.


	3. Searching for Threads

_February 14th.—_ Holmes was already up by the time I came down to the sitting-room. He was sprawled on the settee, smoking his before-breakfast pipe and contemplating the small parcel in his hand. My body was still tingling pleasantly from the night before, and even the bruise didn’t vex me much. Holmes looked up and smiled at me when I walked in, and moved over so that I could join him. I did and kissed him heartily.

“Any progress?” I asked, nodding at the parcel.

“Colossal,” he said in a half-ironic, half-frustrated manner.

“Let’s see what’s new in the papers.” I picked up a fresh issue of _The Daily Telegraph_ , and sure enough, the topic of interest was right there. “Hmm, the valiant Scotland Yard caught the real culprit responsible for the murder of a pawnbroker in Walworth. The stolen ancestral jewellery discovered at the crime scene thanks to the astuteness of the renowned police detective Athelney Jones was returned to the grateful Lady Rossiter. The shop was closed for further investigation, but the innocent wife of the murdered owner released.”

“In short, nothing new,” Holmes grumbled. “I need more data. I shall go to the Yard and interrogate Figg again. Maybe he’ll be more talkative after a night in the cell.”

“I’m ringing for breakfast first.”

“Then only for yourself.” 

“Your brain needs nutrition to work well.”

“I’d rather not divert my energy to digestion.”

“Sherlock, you can’t get an engine to go without coals,” I said in my sternest tone.

“You’re so obstinate, John,” he retorted but heaved a sigh of resignation.

“Just as you are, my dear,” I replied, smiling.

Holmes ate an egg and half a toast to indulge me, and I didn’t insist on more, for we have our compromises. Not a decent meal, yet even that would do as a supplement to his usual diet of coffee and tobacco. (Last night I listened to his heart while he slept, and thankfully it was in perfect order.) I, for my part, was ravenous after yesterday’s exploits.

“When do you finish today?” Holmes asked, standing at the door.

“Around two o’clock.”

“Let’s meet at a quarter past two at Simpson’s, dine, and then we’ll see.”

With that, off he was, like the wind—the working fit was upon him. I devoted an hour to writing until it was time to set out on the daily rounds. My schedule wasn’t busy: Miss Dawson with quinsy and Mrs. Prescott, whose condition had been quite serious yesterday.

Miss Dawson’s case turned out to be mild, and, undoubtedly, she’ll be up and about soon. Mrs. Prescott too was much better today. In fact, she was so energetic that she expressed deepest concern for my lonely bachelor life, lamented incessantly that I didn’t have a sweetheart on such a day like this, and was most insistent that I should meet her pretty nieces. My imagination was running out of excuses, and I barely managed to draw our interview to an end. Meanwhile, my sweetheart was probably in the middle of interrogating a thug in jail.

It was slightly past two o’clock when I entered the restaurant. Holmes was waiting for me at our table. It was clear that he had been back at home after the Yard, for he was wearing a new grey suit which he had bought recently and which became him very much. Alas, I couldn’t ogle him to my heart’s content while we were in public, so I had to direct my attention to the exquisite food. The main course was the crowning masterpiece: Holmes had ordered for us both my favourite roast beef. It was served shortly upon my arrival.

“We need to visit the pawnbroker’s again,” Holmes said once the waiter poured us fine old claret and left us to our own devices. “Perhaps Mrs. Bellingham will remember something. Besides, we should have a look at the ring which had brought us there in the first place.”

“And the interrogation of Figg? How did it go?”

“Figg was found hanged in his cell this morning.”

Only now Holmes’s face showed a glimpse of disappointment that he must have carefully suppressed, not allowing it to spoil our dinner. I whistled.

“Poor devil! No doubt it’s because of what he let slip last night. Such people don’t just hang themselves. That means there is a rat among the police.”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Holmes said gravely. “I shall attend to the matter in due time.”

“We ought to inform the Commissioner,” I replied, appalled.

“It’s not that simple,” Holmes said almost in a whisper. “Where do you think a common thug got so much money? It’s a distinct touch of the mastermind.”

“The one which was involved in that Pinkerton’s case?” I lowered my voice too. Holmes nodded.

“Please don’t ask anything else about him at present.”

“An unrelated question,” I said at a normal volume. “Have you any plans for the evening?”

“Not in particular, why?”

“I reserved a box at St. James’s Theatre.”

Watching a play with Holmes and later discussing it at home has always been a delight. He gives such in-depth analyses from both the artistic and the technical sides that many a famous critic fail to provide. I can listen to him for hours, and he, surprisingly, has a genuine interest in my layman opinions. Holmes knows the process from the inside, for he was trained as a professional actor himself in his earlier days after he had left the university and joined a theatre company for two years much to Mycroft’s chagrin.

“I suppose it’s no use racing the engine, so a diversion could be beneficial,” Holmes said. “What will it be?”

“Something the whole of London is fussing about. First time in England, a one-act comedy by this Russian playwright rising to fame, Chekhov.” I took the tickets out of my pocket and handed them to Holmes.

“ _A Marriage Proposal_ ,” he read out, breaking into a smirk. “On Valentine’s day? Really, Watson, you excel yourself.”

“Do you accept then?” I said in a joking tone but cursing inwardly the blush which was spreading over my cheeks as if I actually got down on one knee.

“Oh my dear chap, I thought you’d never ask,” Holmes said with a twinkle in his eye.

From that point his mood improved. I was glad to see that in spite of the unsuccessful turn in the case Holmes was eating with a good appetite. Our conversation strayed into a more trivial direction, and after dinner we went to the Bellingham’s shop, as agreed.

That was a drastic change of environment—out of an elegant Strand restaurant and into a littered East End street. The place was even more uninviting than before: not a soul around the pawnbroker’s, the worn shutters on its shop windows bolted, and a sign “CLOSED” on the locked door. Below the sign there was a note from the police asking to apply for the pledged items next week.

Holmes knocked on the door, but no one answered, so he knocked louder and more insistently until something clattered above and the stairs inside the house creaked under shuffling steps.

“We’re closed, don’t you see the sign?” yelled Mrs. Bellingham as she was approaching. Upon seeing us through the glass in the front door, however, she changed her demeanour entirely. “Oh, it’s you, sirs! Come in, come in.”

She let us in with a curtsey and a fawning smile. Everything in the shop stayed the same, except that the floor had been thoroughly washed and Holmes’s hat sat atop of the counter.

“Ah, my missing hat,” Holmes said cheerily. “Could you send it to my house, please?” He gave the old woman his card and a sovereign.

“Certainly, sir,” she replied, dropping another curtsey. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Yes, there is. Would you mind a few questions, madam?”

“Not at all, sir.”

“Have you been acquainted with Harvey Figg?”

“Acquainted? No. I’ve seen him a couple o’ times here over the past month. He would come late, and George would shoo me away upstairs. I’ve only learned his name today. They were a-takin’ his body from the cell when I was released.” Mrs. Bellingham squirmed. “I had no idea about this shady business, sir, if that’s what you mean,” she added hurriedly.

“Were there any other visitors your husband didn’t want you to see?” I asked.

“Not that I was aware of,” Mrs. Bellingham replied, shrugging her shoulders, and then, under her breath—“Serves him right, old fool.”

Holmes and I exchanged looks, eyebrows slightly raised. There had been indeed little love lost between the spouses.

“Who else except you and Figg knew about the purse your husband wore on his chest?” Holmes continued.

“Nobody. He was a terrible recluse and hardly ever went out. I meself found out by mere chance.”

“Among your recent clients, was there anyone as tall and strong as Figg?”

“Aye, there was a fellow, quite well off, judgin’ by his clothes, but for some reason always broke. I ha’ his name and address here.” She dived under the counter, took out a ledger, thumbed through it, and pointed out one of the entries.

“Thank you,” Holmes said and wrote down the data.

“And wait, there was another. I wouldn’t say he was strong, but he was tall, ‘bout your height, sir. He hasn’t showed up for a while, though.” Mrs. Bellingham turned a few pages back and put her finger at another entry. Holmes took note of it as well, then produced from his pocket yesterday’s parcel and held it out in his hand.

“Perhaps you can remember anything about this, now that you’ve recovered from the shock?”

“No, sir, definitely not.”

“Very well,” Holmes said, withdrawing the parcel. “And lastly, there should be a pledged item in your possession: a gold ring, round bezel set with a blue diamond, circa the beginning of the century. Does it sound familiar?”

“A blue diamond,” Mrs. Bellingham drawled thoughtfully. Then she turned to the cabinet behind her and took out a display case with many various rings in it, labelled and arranged in a methodical manner. “There’s only one ‘cause such diamonds are rare, and that brilliant is of the deepest blue I’ve ever come across.”

She opened the display case and picked up the ring. I recognised it at once—I couldn’t believe my eyes. Last time I saw it upon my mother’s hand when I was a lad fresh from the university, unmarred by the war, before I lost her and my brother. Suddenly there was a lump in my throat, and I swallowed hard.

“This is it,” I said.

Mrs. Bellingham consulted her ledger, nodded with satisfaction, and gave the ring to me.

“It’s unredeemed and has been for sale for a fortnight,” she said.

“How much?” I asked, reaching for my purse, ready to pay any money.

“No, no, just take it,” Mrs. Bellingham said and signed a receipt. “Thank you and heaven bless you, sirs, both of you.”

I was somewhat in a daze as we thanked her in return and left. The weight of the ring on my left little finger filled my heart with warmth.

“Are you all right?” Holmes touched my elbow, his gaze concerned.

“Yes, quite,” I replied. “We are going to visit the tall gentlemen, aren’t we?”

“Indeed, but first the acquaintance I mentioned to you the other day.”

A few yards away, on the corner of the street there was a squalid nameless tavern. Drunkards of all sorts were loitering around it, although the time was far from the evening yet. Holmes headed inside, and I was obliged to follow.

The moment we entered, each and every patron of the place stared at us, but as we found our way to a sticky table opposite the bar they lost interest little by little. The sour stench of poor quality beer was overwhelming, and the atmosphere was terribly stuffy, so we had to take off our hats and coats. One of the patrons sitting at the bar kept glaring at Holmes. Holmes beckoned him, and the fellow came up reluctantly.

It was a man of an indefinite age, about an inch under six feet in height, with greasy hair and yellowish complexion which bespoke liver or kidney problems, or maybe both. He was dressed in a dandyish but vulgar fashion and emanated an odour of stale sweat mixed with foul breath, for his sparse teeth were rotten.

“Mr. ‘olmes, what d’ye think yer doin’, showin’ up ‘ere all dapper and draggin’ someone along to boot?” The fellow squinted at me.

“This gentleman is as trustworthy as I am,” Holmes said nonchalantly. “I have something to discuss with you, Nicks, regarding Harvey Figg.”

“I ain’t gonna talk to ya.”

“Your debt, remember.”

“Once ye le’ me ge’ off from ‘em coppers, Mr. ‘olmes, but i’ was ages ago, and yer askin’ too much for i’.”

“So, you gave away your own rival to me?” Holmes proceeded, ignoring the fellow’s tirade.

“I ‘ad no idea ‘bout Figg’s business with ‘e old geezer,” Nicks bristled. “And I dropped ye a word ‘bout ‘e ring, as ye wanted. Stuff which ‘appened after was sheer coincidence. I ain’t got no profit in rattin’ Figg out ‘cause ‘e worked for birds of a different feather. Now we’re even, Mr. ‘olmes. Cheers.”

He spat on the floor through the gap between his teeth and stalked off.

“Well, well, something is stirring, Watson,” Holmes said with a grin. “It may prove to be a worthwhile hunt after all.”

As odious a character the Nicks fellow was, he did have a point: Holmes really was dapper. I had noted it at the restaurant. That tone of grey matched his eyes, and the immaculate cut hugged his slender, athletic figure. His expression was eager; the gash on his cheekbone contrasted with his otherwise well-groomed appearance, giving him rakish air. He wasn’t so pale today, even though we had had a rather late night and very little sleep. Only a few hours ago those wiry arms had been around me, and his lithe body against mine—

“John, we’re in a public place,” Holmes murmured, but mischief was dancing in his eyes.

“Yes, sorry,” I said quickly, averting my gaze, and rose to put on my coat and hat. “Now where to?”

“To Mr. Ralf Rigby, student, of 4, Queen’s Row, it’s not far from here.”

It was a relief to get outside. The street might have been dirty, but at least it was easier to breathe.

“Holmes, what if the murderer wasn’t just a client?” I asked as we were skirting heaps of rubbish on the pavement. “What if it was someone like Figg? Someone Mrs. Bellingham didn’t see in the shop? He could come even later than Figg, and this Nicks did mention birds of a different feather.”

“A valid conjecture,” Holmes replied. “However, at present we should follow up the threads we already have.”

Number 4, Queen’s Row was a gloomy two-storied tenement house. Upon enquiry we were directed upstairs where the door was opened by a young woman, petite, graceful, yet pale and worn with worry. Soft chestnut hair framed her delicate face; her large dark eyes studied us intently. Her brown dress was plain but neat, and her bearing was modest and dignified. She let us into a small, bleak, scantily furnished sitting-room which was nevertheless warm and clean. Holmes and I introduced ourselves and asked whether we could see Mr. Rigby.

“I am Norah McKenzie, Ralf’s sister,” the young woman said. “Ralf is very ill and now is asleep.”

“That is regretful,” Holmes said. “How long has he been ill?”

“I found him yesterday in a fever after he hadn’t called on me for about a week. Would you like to leave a message for him?”

At that moment heavy coughing came from the next room, and then a hoarse voice, “Norah, who’s there?”

“Oh, he woke up. If you will excuse me,” she said and hurried to the sick man. In hushed tones she explained him who we were.

“Show them in,” he said.

She ushered us to a bedroom which was smaller than the sitting-room but as spotless. A young man not more than twenty lay propped against the pillow in a rickety bed. There was a distinct family likeness of his features with those of the lady, the same chestnut hair and dark eyes. Although well-built, he was pallid and gaunt, evidently emaciated by malnutrition and a prolonged illness.

“What can I do for you, gentlemen?” Ralf Rigby asked, regarding us wearily.

“We are sorry for disturbing you, Mr. Rigby,” Holmes said. “You might probably hear about the recent murder of Mr. George Bellingham, a pawnbroker. The culprit, a pugilist Harvey Figg, was a local celebrity. Maybe you saw him accidentally when you visited the shop and noticed some details about him which could be important for the investigation?”

“Norah told me about the murder. It’s terrible,” the young man said, frowning. “I’ve been in bed for four days and haven’t read the papers. I used to go there when I had things to pledge, last time a month ago. Old Bellingham had the lowest rates but was very particular about expiry dates. I’ve heard about Figg and his short temper—everyone in the neighbourhood has—however, I’ve never met him. That’s all I know, I’m afraid.”

Another coughing fit seized him, his chest heaving laboriously. Mrs. McKenzie took a kettle from the grate, poured some tea into a cup on the bedside table, and gave the cup to her brother.

“Have you consulted a doctor?” I asked.

“We will send for him later,” Mr. Rigby replied between the sips.

“I could examine you now if you wish.”

“That would be most kind of you,” Mrs. McKenzie said before her brother could answer.

“I shall wait in the sitting-room. Thank you, Mr. Rigby. Get well soon,” Holmes said.

Mr. Rigby’s symptoms were of intermediate severity; it was a neglected bronchitis. Having finished the examination, I handed a prescription to Mrs. McKenzie. She asked me about the fee when she was seeing us out, but I assured her it wasn’t necessary and promised to check on the sick man in a few days.

“The other one is Mr. Alastair Sullivan, clerk, of 22, West Smithfield,” Holmes said, glancing at his notes. We hailed a cab and soon were rattling to the next destination.

“Sorry for the time it took, Holmes. I just couldn’t leave the fellow without medical attention which he direly needed,” I said.

“That sitting-room was of some interest.”

“What did you observe?”

“Trifles, but then again, one should never underestimate details. The brother fell on very hard times and left the university already a while ago—the state of his dress suggests it. No self-respecting man would attend the university in such a decrepit coat. Yet he continued his studies by himself and apparently was so absorbed in them that abandoned tutoring—tattered school textbooks were put away on a distant shelf, newspapers with advertisements rather old. As for the sister, she teaches French, judging by a bundle of worksheets on the desk; most likely a widow, although the fair sex is so misleading.”

“How could you tell that the worksheets belonged to the sister, and not to the brother?”

“They were tied with a silk ribbon, and the top one was still damp from this sleet which has been falling since morning.”

“And why do you think she’s a widow? Well, her surname is different from the brother’s, and she wears no ring, but it could be pledged.”

“She said ‘he hadn’t called on me’. It implies that she lives alone. Then there’s the peculiar evaluating expression in her eyes characteristic of unmarried women.”

“She could be separated from her husband.”

“You’re quite taken with her,” Holmes teased humorously, but I knew that tone.

Under the light-hearted veneer he was serious. It was unpleasant. I don’t like when he is like that. It’s as if he doesn’t trust me, as if the relationship with him were a mere dalliance for me, and eventually I would come to my senses and settle down with a woman.

“Taken is too strong a word, but any man would notice that she’s beautiful,” I replied coldly. “You did too, that’s why you are ruffled.”

“I am not ruffled.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Ah, my Watson, at least you’re candid,” Holmes muttered.

“Exactly. I am yours,” I snapped.

“You can say it louder if you wish to be heard on the other side of the street,” he returned; the softness in his eyes, however, belied his strict reprimand.

The results we got at 22, West Smithfield were as meagre. An elderly housekeeper of a nice cosy flat informed us that Mr. Sullivan had departed to Adelaide the previous morning with his wife and daughter as they had been planning. We went then to the shipping office in Pall Mall where it was confirmed that the family had actually boarded the _Parramatta_ which had sailed from Southampton.

“I’ll wire to the Adelaide police. They shall interrogate him when he arrives,” Holmes said to himself, lighting up a cigarette, when we found ourselves back in the street.

“Even if you get to the bottom of the matter, what is it to you?” I said. “It’s not worth overexerting yourself while you’ve just started to recover from another near-collapse you drove yourself into. My dear fellow, that won’t do at all.”

“Let’s go home and change. We’re due to that play,” he replied, not looking at me.

An hour later, we were driving up to St. James’s Theatre in our dress-clothes. Inexplicably, my thoughts wandered to Mary Morris and the lost treasure of Agra. I remembered how Holmes and I had set out with her from the portico of the Lyceum Theatre on a quest which had ended in such a strange fashion. Now she was miles away, across the ocean, gone from our lives like the rest of the former clients, while I was as ever at Holmes’s side, and there was nowhere else I would rather be.

The play turned out to be loud and garish, not at all what I had hoped for, yet somehow it lightened my spirits. Holmes didn’t seem as sullen either. To my relief, it didn’t appear that his refined artistic taste was too much offended. There was a grain of truth in that comedy about two people fighting but loving each other, and then fighting some more. A story of our life, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *In my headcanon, when writing his stories, Watson changes names of the clients for the sake of their privacy and safety.
> 
> ** _A Marriage Proposal_ is a real play by Chekhov, although whether or not it was performed at St. James’s Theatre is another matter ;)


	4. Valentine’s Evening

_Follow-up._ —After the play, our evening was leisurely. We had a light supper, and then lounged by the fire in our dressing-gowns and slippers, smoking our pipes. The expression in Holmes’s eyes was vacant, lack-lustre, his brow furrowed as blue wreaths swirled around him. He was pondering over the little we had found out, so I didn’t disturb him with attempts at conversation. Instead, I settled myself down at my desk and employed my own method of analysis by confiding to paper the impressions of the day.

In the subdued light of our sitting-room the ring on my little finger glistened, having been carefully cleaned, all traces of its wanderings removed, as if it came to me right through the veil of years, from the family hearth that was no more to the home I shared now with the one I held most dear. Holmes was still in deep meditation, his old briar pipe between his lips, his fingertips pressed together, and his long legs stretched out in front of him. Almost eight years ago to date we had kissed for the first time, in a secluded place backstage at the Albert Hall.

I rose and went to the window. It was already dark outside, and the never-ending sleet turned into snowflakes dancing in the air before they joined their brethren in a soft blanket that covered the ground. Holmes said once that I anchored him, being the only constant in his life. But, by heaven, I had been like a snowflake myself, adrift in the wind, until I met him. Suddenly, the pressure of his chest against my back dispelled my reverie. I hadn’t heard him approach. For a few minutes he looked over my shoulder at the street, his hand caressing my hip surreptitiously. I pulled down the blind. He hugged me from behind, and his lips sought out mine.

“A penny for your thoughts,” he murmured after.

“Can’t you deduce them?” I replied playfully.

“This ring signifies strong emotional ties.” His thumb brushed my left little finger. “Such was your reaction at the pawnbroker’s, and then you kept glancing at it during the play and while you were writing.”

“It was passed down through several generations in my mother’s family,” I said. “It evokes many precious memories. Mother had a gift of storytelling. Her tales were so captivating that... circumstances... of our household would fade away in the background. She supported me through school and the university. When I was in the army, we wrote to each other until her last days.”

“Your mother must have been an exceptional lady,” he said. “I have almost no recollections of mine. I don’t remember her face, only her gentle hands and voice. She was the first to teach me music.”

“How old were you...?”

“I was five.”

We fell silent. It pained me that he had been bereft, and at such a young age. He hardly ever spoke of his family—now I understood why. I hadn’t mentioned to him much about my earlier life either, even though we had been together long enough.

“I shall not expect reciprocal confidence, for this subject is uneasy for you.” I led him by the hand back to the fireplace. We relapsed into our armchairs, and he gazed at me intently.

“As you know, my father was a lawyer,” I began. “He worked very hard to provide for the family, to make a name for himself and earn respect of the community. Those aims he achieved but at a cost of his health. The strain of continuous stress took its toll on him which manifested itself in signs of mental aberration. He sought relief in drinking, and it only aggravated his condition. Eventually he was committed to an asylum, having lost the last shreds of sanity.

“My brother Henry was ten years older than me and barely out of the university when he became the head of the family. He expanded Father’s practice, married a wonderful girl, and for a while we all were happy. Everything changed, however, after his wife died in childbirth. His son didn’t survive either. Following our father’s steps, Henry turned to drink too, and it affected his personality as drastically—that’s when he became careless and untidy.

“By the time I finished school, the once successful enterprise had hit bottom. Our Scottish relatives offered to pay for my education so that I could keep the lawyer dynasty going, but I chose a medical path. When I graduated, naturally, I didn’t have any means to start off as a doctor, so I joined the army. Hence, as much as I had hoped to be of help, I was miles away when Mother wrote me of her illness. Her decline was rapid. She had already been ill before my despatch to India but wanted me to proceed with my plans and therefore kept silent.

“She passed away while I was at hospital in Peshawar with my injuries. Upon my return to England I discovered that my brother had gone under completely. Later I saw him several times over seven years, and our relationship grew worse and worse. I was so ashamed—of it, of him. He kept asking for money which I would give, and then he would disappear for months. He didn’t care for medical help, remembering our father. Nothing could persuade him otherwise. Our last encounter ended in a terrible, terrible row, and after that I didn’t hear from him until I received the watch.”

Sherlock took my hand in his and entwined our fingers, his eyes anguished.

“I’m very sorry, John. I noticed, of course, that something was amiss at times but chose not to force your confidence and not to make inquiries, respecting your privacy. I reasoned that you would tell me yourself if you wished to.”

“And I appreciated it. Well... knowing of that predisposition in my family, I’ve been always on guard in terms of drinking and mental health. The diaries, actually, are a means of self-observation. I started my first one when I entered med school.”

“Yes, you are indeed careful with alcohol.”

“The addictive streak did express itself in gambling.” I smiled ruefully. “You found an ingenious solution, though, by locking my check-book in your desk.”

“Perhaps addictions never truly go away, but they can be managed,” he replied.

“At one point I was dangerously close to descending into drinking. The war was over, but I was uprooted and miserable, my shoulder and leg hurt. I wished to forget everything: the army, the pain, and the naive dreams which were not to be. I bless the day I started to look for shared lodgings and will always be grateful to Stamford. Your company healed me. You didn’t pry, didn’t ask any obtrusive questions. Instead, you were by my side. You gave me hope and a sense of purpose when I had none.”

His hold on my hand tightened, and his lips parted as he regarded me, astonished and deeply moved. But it was the truth.

“I... composed a piece for you,” he said at last. “Would you like to listen?”

I nodded. He rose, fetched his violin, and closed his eyes for a moment, his face intense with concentration. Then he let out a breath and put the bow to the strings.

A tender, serene air, clear like a spring, carried me on its waves. It was growing, growing, until it surged into passion, fire, and yearning with a tinge of sadness. But the leading theme was that of warmth and light. It took my breath away and made my heart skip a few beats, tiny hairs on my skin standing up. How he combined it all is beyond me. I was stunned, utterly mesmerised, floating in absolute happiness. To be loved so... I cannot describe it with words.

When he finished, his expression was soft and his eyes vulnerable as he looked at me. At that instant his countless shields had been dropped.

“Sherlock,” I gasped quietly.

The power of speech quite abandoned me. I sprang to my feet, dashed to him, threw my arms around his neck and poured into the kiss everything I had failed to say.

“Mmm, reception from the audience is most enthusiastic,” he said, chuckling.

“The audience is ecstatic and begs for an encore.”

“Then you shall have it.”

He played for me that amazing gift again and many more of my favourite pieces until he had me so relaxed and far away in dream-land that I began to doze off. I was vaguely aware that he put aside his violin and leaned down to me.

“Go to bed, John,” he said, stroking my cheek.

“And you?” I mumbled.

“Not just yet.”

“Do join me sometime later.” I got up unwillingly and pecked him on the lips. “Good night, my dear.”

Our bed was cold and comfortless without him, but, as usual, it would have to do, since Sherlock was in a contemplative mood. I curled up between the sheets and soon fell asleep to long, sonorous chords coming from below.


	5. Wheat and Chaff

_February 15th.—_ I woke up in the morning to Sherlock half-draped over me, fast asleep. I lay for a while, listening to his deep breath, enjoying his warmth and the feeling of him in my arms. His sleep pattern has been irregular of late, so his system is high-strung and especially needs the precious hours of recuperation. Eventually I had to rise; I dislodged him carefully, without disturbing, and began my morning routine, making as little noise as possible.

The weather promised to be clear and frosty like two days before. I was shaving by the window when I heard the rustle of sheets behind. Sherlock stirred in bed, groped the space next to him, grunted in displeasure, and opened one eye.

“Sleep, it’s only a quarter to eight,” I said.

“Why aren’t you?” he mumbled.

No one can ever guess how the prim and austere detective looks like when he wakes from his slumbers. To know it is my privilege. His fluffy hair, yet untamed by the comb and macassar oil, stuck out as it pleased. The night’s growth of beard shadowed his cheeks and chin, and a pillow line crossed his right temple.

“I have plans to arrange my notes and choose one from our past cases,” I said, coming closer to admire him.

“Ah, your literary calling.” Holmes yawned and stretched luxuriously. “Have you anything particular in mind?”

“That occasion with the gem in the goose maybe,” I mused.

“Quite sensational and dramatic to excite your readers but rather simple for a novel.” He searched for his slippers under the bed, cursed, and lit up the lamp on the bedside table.

“The Hound case?”

“The baronet won’t give his permission anytime soon.”

“Then I’ll think of something else,” I replied and headed back to the washstand.

“Take the lamp,” Holmes said, donning his dressing-gown.

“No, it’s fine.”

“Since you’re shaving today earlier than usual, there’s still not enough light on your left side, and you’ve missed a bit near your jaw.”

“Oh,” I said, putting up my palm to my face. It was prickly. “Thanks.”

I had expected that Holmes would lie about in bed as is his wont when he is not busy, but he got dressed and brought himself in order. It became clear that he had plans too, for after breakfast he sallied out in his loafer disguise and was absent nearly four hours.

Whatever he was up to had no success—I could see it by his features upon his return. Without a word he dragged me to his room, and we had a wildest session of carnal pleasures. It was well into the afternoon when we emerged. As our ever tactful and long-suffering landlady was serving the belated lunch, she pretended to overlook the debauchery which must have been written plainly across our faces in spite of our decent appearance.

Holmes didn’t say anything about his outing, and I didn’t press him. His meal was barely touched. Then he filled his clay pipe with coarse black tobacco and curled himself up in his armchair but couldn’t sit still, sprang to his feet, and paced about the room, drumming his long, nervous fingers upon the furniture.

There was a knock on the door, and Mrs. Hudson entered with a card on her salver.

“A lady wishes to see you, Doctor,” she said.

Holmes stopped in his tracks, his expression puzzled.

“Strange, patients usually don’t come here. Do you expect anyone, John?”

“No, but perhaps it’s something urgent.” I took the card, and the name on it had me worried. “Please ask Mrs. Norah McKenzie to step up, Mrs. Hudson.”

The young lady looked tired, the pallor of her complexion almost anaemic. However, she didn’t appear upset.

“Excuse me for troubling you, Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes, but I’ve made some inquiries, and your address wasn’t difficult to find,” she said.

“You’re not troubling us at all, Mrs. McKenzie,” I said as we rose to greet her. “Has Mr. Rigby’s condition worsened?”

“Oh no, on the contrary, he is better, thanks to your help, Doctor.”

“Please take a seat, Mrs. McKenzie.” Holmes motioned her to the settee. “Do you mind the smell of tobacco?”

“Not in the least,” she smiled, seating herself. “I came because Ralf and I owe you something, Doctor. I’ve also learned the rates of your professional charges.”

“As I said yesterday, there’s no need, Mrs. McKenzie.” I held up my hand hastily as she started to open her purse.

“But I insist, Doctor.”

“Could you accept it as friendly assistance?”

“We wouldn’t like to be indebted.”

Her dark eyes shone with determination, and I didn’t know what else I could do to refuse and give no offence.

“I’m sorry for putting it bluntly, madam, but your brother should be provided with medicine and good nourishment, which is essential for his convalescence, and any additional expenses would make it harder to do so.”

She furrowed her brow, a shadow of sadness passing over her fine features.

“I suppose you are right.”

“If Mr. Rigby feels worse, do not hesitate to send for me,” I said, loath to have caused her pain.

She thanked me in a subdued manner and took her leave of us. Holmes had watched the whole exchange from his armchair.

“A remarkable woman. Living hand to mouth; your fee is probably her day’s pay, and yet,” he muttered.

“I remember what it was like to be at low water and on your own.”

Holmes nodded—he did too. I rang for tea and returned to my desk.

“Details in your two novels, or rather the lack of continuity is quite amusing for an observant reader,” Holmes said apropos of nothing. “In the first one you give that list of my limits while in the second you have me quote La Rochefoucauld and Goethe.”

“You did quote them,” I replied patiently, resigned that I would never hear the end of it.

“How does this account for _‘Knowledge of literature.—Nil’_?”

“ _I_ didn’t know you and your pranks at the time of those events.”

“You should have seen your face back then,” he said, grinning.

“That’s what I conveyed. Surely, a perceptive reader will understand.”

“It was useless to conceal the leg wound in the first book, only to explicitly mention it in the second.”

“Yes, it’s a rather awkward blunder. I was a bit touchy about my leg when I wrote ‘A Study in Scarlet.’”

“You still are sometimes.” There was a tinge of wistfulness in Holmes’s voice, but then he relapsed into his half-cynical, half-mischievous tone. “Also, who would believe you got enamoured with your dear wife during those few hours you barely interacted? You don’t even describe her as beautiful in your usual florid way, you, who has _‘an experience of women extending over many nations and three continents’_. If there are more novels, what’s going to be next? Children?”

“I don’t understand why it ticks you off so much. You can’t be jealous of _fiction_!This is preposterous. Besides, I’ve got a better idea than novels.”

“Oh, pray enlighten me.”

“Short stories! They take less time to write and are much easier for readers to follow. By Jove, I’ll do just that.” I jumped to my feet in excitement and paced around the desk, gesticulating with my pipe. “And I will add so many glaring inconsistencies about my ‘wife’ that indeed it will be hard to miss!”

“Calm down, Doctor, don’t work yourself into a fit,” Holmes said with feigned apprehension.

I snatched a cushion from the settee and threw at him, and we both burst out laughing. Mrs. Hudson, who brought tea at that very moment, was mildly startled. She shook her head in fond exasperation and left the tray on the table.

In spite of this light interlude Holmes remained brittle. It seemed that his nervous tension was only growing. He withered me with a look when I ventured to suggest a sedative, but he tried to distract himself by delving into his chemical work. At supper he pushed the food around his plate, his eyes fixed vacantly on the opposite wall, and later asked Mrs. Hudson for coffee. I strongly objected to that since it would deprive him of sleep. He gave in with annoyance and spent the rest of the evening in morose silence over his retorts, test-tubes, and Bunsen burners.

_February 16th.—_ Holmes had slept badly and was in a dark mood from early morning. The characteristic precursors of the day before—irritability, nervousness, absence of appetite—entailed a full-scale reaction today.

At first he lay on the sofa in the sitting-room, hardly uttering a word and ignoring my remarks. Then he tried to resume his chemical experiments. Having ruined two, the latter of which produced an extremely foul smell, he threw off his notebook and pencil _._

Silently, I opened the window and continued reading. The small parcel from the crime scene never left his desk; he took it and paced with it along the room, his head sunk on his chest. When the sound of his footfall stopped for a while, I raised my eyes from the newspaper. He stood by the mantelpiece, rolling down his sleeve, and then he reeled a little but quickly regained his balance. My instincts blared the alarm. I rushed to him, grabbed him by the shoulders, and looked him in the face. His brow glistened with sweat, pupils dilated so much that his grey eyes seemed black. I caught him by the wrist and pushed up his sleeve. My heart turned to lead at the sight. A fresh puncture on his pale sinewy arm was swollen, of angry red colour.

“How much have you taken?” I cried, appalled.

“Enough to clear the mind. There’s no cause for agitation,” Holmes said flippantly and disengaged his wrist from my grip.

“No cause for—? Sherlock, you’re obsessed with this thing,” I gestured at the parcel. “You’ve increased the dosage! Don’t you realise where it’s going?”

“Will you please stop being a nuisance, John, and let me think?” he replied in a carefully level tone.

“You didn’t need cocaine to think! Coffee and tobacco used to be enough for it. Now they’re not!”

“Unfortunately, neither are orgasms.”

I was startled by this but decided to disregard it.

“Listen. Even though cocaine has a short-term effect of euphoria, prolonged usage exacerbates melancholy, and one craves for more. It’s a vicious circle. It killed many of my former comrades.”

“Spare me your medical discourse. I need to think.”

“This is not a way to treat depre—”

“Get out!” he snarled.

We stared at each other, breathing heavily. His eyes were blazing, and hectic spots sprang into his sallow cheeks.

“Very well, if that’s what you wish,” I said and stomped off upstairs.

It was impossible to focus on reading or writing, for I myself now felt like a caged beast. How could I stop him from abusing himself if he would not listen? This argument went on and on for years, ever since I first noticed that accursed dreamy look. Morphine and later cocaine kept destroying him little by little, and I was powerless. I would do anything to make him give it up if only I knew how.

I took several deep breaths, drank some water, and considered having a stroll in the Park, but then had a better idea. In ten minutes I was in a hansom, driving to Walworth. It got warmer; fresh air was invigorating, albeit the day was dull and drizzly. The remains of snow which hadn’t been cleared out turned into omnipresent slush. There was no escape from it on both sides of the city.

Mrs. McKenzie’s face lit up when I explained that I came to make sure her brother was recovering well. His cough appeared to be not as bad as it had been, and the circles under his eyes were less dark, but he was strangely aloof. Once Mrs. McKenzie went downstairs for a bowl of chicken broth for him, he scowled at me in plain animosity.

“What is your business here, playing a good Samaritan?” he demanded.

“I only wish to help,” I replied, taken aback.

“Indeed? How noble of you. I don’t need your charity, Doctor.”

“Mr. Rigby, you’re ill. Spare your energy and let me examine you.”

“What for? My sister is already an easy prey.”

“This is outrageous. I assure you I have no such intentions.”

“You can give me your word as a gentleman,” Rigby sneered.

His conduct was simply beyond the pale, and I had no obligation to tolerate it any longer. Sick people tended to be skittish sometimes, but everything had a limit.

“Overexcitement is harmful in your state, Mr. Rigby. Good day,” I said.

On my way out I met Mrs. McKenzie and inclined my head as I was passing her on the stairs. My original plan had been the most sensible option, so I intended to have a stroll in the Park, quite an extended one. This day was trying my nerves. I was about to hail a cab when I heard a voice calling after me.

“Doctor! Doctor, wait!”

Mrs. McKenzie was hurrying in my wake, her bonnet untied, skirts of her ulster flapping as she was buttoning it on the run.

“Please accept my deepest apologies. Ralf is not himself,” she blurted out, having caught up with me.

“It is understandable that your brother is high-strung due to his illness. Oh, I forgot,” I said, opened my bag, and handed her a bottle of ammonium chloride. “Here, have him take this according to the prescription, and he should soon be back on his feet, for there is a progress. Good nourishment, rest, medication, and he will be all right.”

“I don’t know how to thank you, Doctor.”

“It’s really nothing.”

“No, it means a lot. It means a lot to be helped when you have no one to turn to. Last month our father died, and now Ralf is the only kindred soul I have in this world.” She faltered and frowned, evidently believing that she had said too much.

“I am glad to be of assistance,” I replied earnestly.

“Ralf has changed of late. He became reticent. He’s too proud to accept my help as well, so I had to put my foot down as an older sister. We’ve grown distant.” She sighed. “But the true Ralf is kind and sensitive. He has always been our pride. Ah, how happy we were. He studied philosophy at the City of London College, and I taught at Godolphin School at the time.”

“Why, that’s one of the best schools for girls in England,” I said, sounding more surprised than politeness allowed. Mrs. McKenzie smiled. “What happened?” I asked.

“Well, life can take a bad turn when you least expect,” she replied after a pause.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

“No, no, it’s all right. I started it first. Haven’t talked like this with anyone for ages.” Mrs. McKenzie lowered her gaze. She had ran out without gloves, and her dainty fingers, worn by domestic work, got chilled. “So, there were some difficulties, and then Father was diagnosed with consumption.

“The required treatment was expensive. Ralf left college to earn something and so that we could use the means reserved for his education. It’s such a shame he cannot go back and get a degree, but he never stopped studying by himself and writing his works. Two months ago his article was even published in _The Times_.”

“Mrs. McKenzie, if I may, one of my patients, Mrs. Prescott, mentioned about an opening in her school. I’m sure that with such credentials your chances would be good,” I said.

“Then I shall certainly apply,” she replied eagerly. “Could you give me the address?”

“She lives at 128, Crawford Street. If you wish, I could introduce you to her.”

“Oh, thank you. That would be wonderful. When?”

I contemplated the question a little. Mrs. Prescott should be at home, and her afternoon routine wasn’t busy.

“You know, we could call on her now,” I said.

“Now?”

“If it’s not inconvenient to you.”

“By no means.”

And so we went to Mrs. Prescott who was delighted and intrigued by the young lady and insisted that we stay for dinner. I inquired after the general condition of my enthusiastic patient—it was fairly good—and Mrs. Prescott proposed to have a detailed interview with Mrs. McKenzie as soon as dinner was over. I excused myself and left while they were conversing amiably in Mrs. Prescott’s study. Mrs. McKenzie’s prospects indeed seemed quite favourable.

When I returned home, to my relief, Holmes looked better. He was perched in his armchair with his knees drawn up, his expression inscrutable, and I chose to let him be lest we have another quarrel. However, he spoke to me first.

“You’ve been to Rigby’s, I take it. That kind of dirt can be found only in Walworth, your medical bag was with you, and you don’t have any other patients there.”

“Yes, for I promised to check on him.”

“That’s always the way, isn’t it?” Holmes gave a wry smile. “Folk in grief flock to you like birds to a light-house. The railway man Turner, then Mrs. Whitney, and now Mrs McKenzie.”

“Come, Sherlock, you too help those in need when you can. That’s what a gentleman ought to do,” I said softly.

“Don’t mind me. You did a good thing,” Holmes replied, chastened.

“He didn’t receive me, though.”

Holmes raised his eyebrows, and I told him everything that had transpired.

“Hum, on the bright side, you lent a hand to the unfortunate girl,” he said after I had finished.

“As for her brother, I shan’t visit again unless I’m called for,” I said, shaking my head.

“Quite a day you’ve had,” Holmes remarked ruefully. “You were right, John. A dose, even an increased one, didn’t get me an inch further.”

“Of course I was right. Leave it, dear, or at least step aside for a while,” I implored.

“Yes, it would be reasonable. Thank you,” he said and covered my hand with his.

“I love you.”

For some reason he can’t say it back, yet I see it in the way he looks at me, and it is enough.

Our peace restored, we are sitting in silence again, but this silence is comfortable. Holmes is arranging newspaper clippings in his scrapbooks, and I am revising my diaries over the past few years.

My previous entries confirm that up until now his overindulgence in drugs took place only during lulls between the cases. So far we had two major rows: before the case involving _the_ woman, as Holmes refers to the lady, and before the Australian murder in Herefordshire. Both episodes occurred last year, which of itself is a clear sign that his addiction is progressing. Twice we reconciled by giving each other some time alone. On the former occasion I went to Paris to attend a course of lectures on psychology, on the latter Holmes disappeared for several days in his studies of the underworld, and then, out of the blue, summoned me with a telegram to Paddington Station. These cases might make good stories to write in the future.

But I digress. My instincts tell me that alone time is not a solution for the present situation. His mood swings are getting more frequent and intense. This new symptom is very unsettling. It must be supervised.


	6. The Truth is Rarely Pure

_February 17th.—_ Holmes had stayed up all night on the pretext of insomnia, but obviously my advice to step aside for a while had fallen on deaf ears. At least he hadn’t been using during his vigil. When I descended, I found him exactly as he had been: fully dressed, impeccably groomed, sitting by the fire, and puffing out blue rings of smoke.

“Ah, John, you’re up. Good, I was about to rouse you,” he said. There was calmness in his outward appearance but not in his piercing eyes. “Into your clothes, the cab will soon arrive.”

“Where are we going?”

“To the churlish Mr. Rigby!”

I sent the pageboy to Anstruther with a hurried note asking to take over my patients for the day. Holmes didn’t mention what clue he had found overnight and how it was connected to Rigby, yet as ever, I trusted my companion. Eventually he would explain, at an appropriate time. Together with him, by some odd turn of events, I was heading to Walworth again in spite of my resolve.

“By Jove, he _is_ clever. No direct evidence, none,” was the only thing Holmes muttered during the drive.

The man opened the door himself, for apparently Mrs. McKenzie was at work. He was surprised to see Holmes and looked away in embarrassment when he noticed me in Holmes’s tow.

“Mr. Rigby, you got a little better, I perceive. There’s a matter that needs to be cleared up,” Holmes said.

“Yes, of course,” Rigby replied, inviting us with a gesture to sit down on the sofa. “But first of all, Doctor, I must apologise for the ignominious way I treated you yesterday. It was inexcusable. And there’s news about Norah: Mrs. Prescott employed her.”

“It’s good to hear. Please convey to her my congratulations,” I said.

“I will.” Rigby nodded. “What is it that you wish to talk about, Mr. Holmes?”

“This,” Holmes said and extended his hand with the small parcel. A paroxysm of horror crossed Rigby’s face, but at the next instant he composed himself.

“I don’t understand,” the young man said, his expression impassive.

“Don’t you?” Holmes returned curtly. “You’re lying. Your guilty conscience has betrayed you. When we were here for the first time, you played a part of an innocent witness very well. I commend you. Nevertheless, by Watson’s second visit your strained nerves showed. You surmised that Watson was acting upon my instruction as a spy, and you had a secret to hide. You had put the theory of yours into practice, but it didn’t go as you had expected.”

“Which theory, Mr. Holmes?” Rigby gave a perplexed laugh.

“The theory you extensively described here.” Holmes took out a newspaper clipping from his pocket and read an excerpt aloud.  

> From the point of view of Society people can be divided into useful and useless. The useful contribute to the common good with their honest work, moving the progress forward at least on the smallest scale. The useless care only for their own profit, taking advantage of human vices and weaknesses, and often depriving the useful of resources, like hogweed in the garden. When it happens to individuals whose usefulness is outstanding, it is truly deplorable. If Newton had had no opportunity to make his discoveries, would he not have the right to eliminate such parasites? It would have been not only justified, it would have been his duty as a responsible citizen.

Rigby blanched, staring at Holmes silently.

“Oh, I remembered this peculiar article. It was signed with a nom-de-plume,” Holmes continued. “Yesterday, however, Mrs. McKenzie mentioned to Watson that two months ago you had been published in _The Times_. It was a long shot, more out of curiosity, yet a note to the editor whom I happen to know was quite helpful.

“From that point I could imagine the rest of the chain. Suppose you found out that a large sum of money had been entrusted to a feeble old pawnbroker you detested. Having nothing valuable, you would need a mock pledge. Anything would do, even pieces of steel and wood which in a proper wrapping would pass as a cigarette case. A tight knot would distract the victim for a few moments so that there was time to take the axe from the shelf. Of course, you were ill. Improbable? Still possible. The grocer nearby had seen you in the shop on the previous evening. That alone was inconclusive, but it fit when I got the whole picture: you had come to assess the place and prepare.”

“You haven’t got any substantial proofs, have you?” Rigby replied with smirk which was cut short by a coughing fit. “I’m tired, though. This damned business drained me. You were right on almost all counts, Mr. Holmes. Well done. There is something I’d like to show you. If you would please follow me.”

He rose and led the way to the adjacent room, and we went after him. I regretted that I didn’t have my revolver with me. On the other hand, Rigby was weak. Even if he tried anything, it wouldn’t be difficult for us to restrain him. In the bedroom Rigby sat down upon his bed and reached into a hole in the wallpaper beside it. From the hole he produced a worn, well-lined leather purse—to think that it had been there all the time!

“I hadn’t detested Bellingham, not in the beginning,” Rigby said hoarsely. “About a month ago, having spent a week indoors, I went out for some fresh air. Somehow, my feet brought me to the closest tavern. Although I usually hate this sort of establishments, suddenly I wanted a drink. Beer on an empty stomach was a poor decision. The smell around made me sick, so I searched for the toilet but took a wrong turn. I ended up in the lumber-room, lost conscience, and apparently fell into the dark corner.

“When I came to, two people were talking right next to me. They were discussing a clearly illegal deal which involved stolen jewellery. I realised with astonishment that one of the voices was familiar. It was old Bellingham. The other, as I learned, was the notorious Figg. In an instant Bellingham turned from an honest tradesman into a fat, disgusting louse. His niggardly pedantry was especially infuriating in this light, for you would lose a thing dear to you if your payment was overdue just by one day. They had no idea that I heard every detail of their sordid plan.

“As I returned to my flat, at first I tried to throw it all out of my head, yet there were thoughts that would appear and never leave. Gradually those thoughts started to take a definite shape.”

Rigby coughed again and gulped several sips from his cup to suppress the fit. His cheeks were flushed up in agitation, his dark eyes burning feverishly.

“At last, as you pointed out, Mr. Holmes, I visited Bellingham’s shop the day before to have a good look at it. I told Bellingham that I would bring him a silver cigarette case I had lent to a friend, for I needed money to buy medicine.

“The next evening everything went smoothly: Bellingham was alone in the shop, his wife already upstairs. I shoved the pledge into his hands, and he hobbled towards the light to unwrap it. When he turned his back on me, I quickly took from the rack the axe I had chosen. Holding it with both hands, I swung it, and hit him on the head with all the strength I had. He didn’t utter a sound. When he fell on the floor in a few seconds, he was already dead. I was giddy and nauseated, but I had the presence of mind to undo his collar, tear off this purse from his neck, and escape.”

“Have you thought of your sister?” I exclaimed bitterly.

“Why, first and foremost,” Rigby said. “With this money I would rescue her, a lady, from the abominable poverty her loser of a husband got her into before he died. He was a successful banker but made a mistake which cost him his place, so he took to drinking and gambling. She resigned her position, trying desperately to wean him of his afflictions, to no avail, and then she tended to our father. She simply didn’t deserve all that misfortune.”

“She didn’t suspect anything?” Holmes raised his eyebrow.

“We haven’t seen each other much until recently because she insisted on sharing her earnings with me.”

“Had she been with you, perhaps her presence could have kept you from that step. Malnourishment and illness distorted your judgement,” I said.

“No, Doctor. I could continue on the pittance from lessons and articles. But lessons are trivial, and articles are merely theory. What is theory without practice? It was essential to run a test. If the louse were discovered, most likely he would be hanged anyway. Getting rid of him was rendering service to Society. I only had to find out whether I had courage to use the right.”

“The right to kill?” Holmes asked harshly.

“Outstanding people aside, even soldiers have that right. I would be as a soldier on guard of Society’s welfare. Such pests have to be destroyed. However,” Rigby’s voice trembled, “I’m no good for it. I’m not outstanding, and neither am I a soldier. I am a failure, that’s all. There was another thing I hadn’t considered. Only after did I realise that this money mustn’t touch Norah, even if she never knew. She is too pure. It would be worse than ruin. Call the police, I don’t care.”

An oppressive silence fell. Holmes’s lips were compressed into a thin line, his brows drawn, and his eyes steely. The last traces of Rigby’s bravado disappeared: his head hung low, his shoulders and back stooped, revealing a defeated, broken man.

“I shall not call the police,” Holmes said. “But blood is on your hands. Live with it.”

He tossed the parcel on the shabby chest of drawers and went to the exit. So did I, aghast. I remembered that provocative article as well. Heated disputes had followed after its publication not only in the press but in clubs and sitting-rooms all over London. It had never occurred to me that Rigby could be the author. His words were still ringing in my ears.

Ten years had passed already, yet those words turned everything upside down in my soul. The murder Rigby had committed didn’t change his views. The wretch regretted only that his nerves had proven not steady enough. What was it? Stupidity of youth, rancour to which he had been driven by the circumstances, or a rotten core?

I hardly noticed anything on our way back. At home I sank into my armchair, too numb even to light up a cigarette.

“John, what’s the matter?” Holmes asked, his voice coming as if from afar.

I didn’t really want to speak. I couldn’t keep pushing it down either.

“I was a soldier,” I said. “I shed people’s blood instead of healing.”

“The war is different,” Holmes objected. “There you defended the honour and interests of our country.”

“So this gives the right to kill?”

“No, that dismal fellow was babbling utter nonsense.”

“We must report him.”

“He won’t kill anymore. I don’t think he will ever break the law again. If we report him, his sister will be left grief-stricken and alone.”

“Then I trust your instincts,” I murmured.

“John,” Holmes said, sounding alarmed.

A sob that escaped my lips startled us both. An old wound which I deemed long buried had opened again. Physical wounds are more honest in that respect: they remind of their existence once in a while. This one took me completely by surprise.

“Regarding my service in the army, I haven’t told you all.” I exhaled, steeling myself for the plunge. “At Maiwand, after the defeat, we were fleeing for our lives. That meant leaving the gravely wounded behind, for we couldn’t do anything for them anymore, and they couldn’t be slung over horses. An endless tide of the Ghazis was coming, and in a few minutes everyone would have been dead. Had we killed our incapacitated comrades, it would have been more merciful, for the enemy mutilated the abandoned. Those who were wounded during the retreat shot themselves. But when I was hit, I just couldn’t. It was my duty as an officer to meet an honourable death by my own hand—that would be fair—but I couldn’t. I was lying there, awaiting my fate. And then Murray found me, good old Murray.”

Once the truth was out, it brought some relief as does tapping of the abscess which had been festering for a long time. Yet I didn’t dare to look Holmes in the eye, convinced that he would be disgusted with me. I felt his grip on my wrists—Sherlock pulled me up to my feet and drew me into a crushing hug.

“There wasn’t anything to be done for them anymore, John,” he said firmly. “I know you. If there had been, you would’ve done it. It was not your fault. Had you shot yourself, we wouldn’t have met, and I’m rather happy that you are here.”

His warm, familiar scent, his steady heartbeat, and his almost hypnotic power of soothing anchored me. He held me as sobs raked through me, and then kissed me, caressing my wet face. I couldn’t get enough of his lips; arousal pulsed in our bodies as our kisses were becoming more and more heated. We staggered to his room, undressing each other, and made love.

We are spending the rest of the day in a most dissipated fashion, alternating between food, tobacco, more lovemaking, and for Sherlock, thankfully, sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *From [wiki](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Maiwand):  
> The Battle of Maiwand—2,476 British/Indian troops vs 25,000 Afghan warriors 
> 
> **From [‘Arthur Conan Doyle and the Meaning of Masculinity’ by Diana Barsham](https://books.google.ru/books?id=kU2oDQAAQBAJ&lpg=PP1&dq=arthur%20conan%20doyle%20and%20the%20meaning%20of%20masculinity&pg=PT99#v=onepage&q&f=false):  
> "[...] the staff of the field hospital to which Watson was attached reputedly fled, leaving the wounded behind."
> 
> ***From [a Daily Mail article](http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2095088/The-REAL-Dr-Watson-The-Victorian-army-medic-inspiration-Sherlocks-trusty-sidekick.html):  
> "There was not enough transport for all the wounded, so many were left to their fate. They knew what it would be. The Afghans were infamous for mutilating the wounded, hence Rudyard Kipling’s advice to British soldiers wounded in Afghanistan to ‘roll to your rifle and blow out your brains and go to your Gawd like a soldier’".


	7. A Logical Conclusion

_February 18th._ —For the first time in a long while I had a nightmare about the war. A Pashtun crept into our field hospital in the small hours of the morning, having slit the throat of the watchman, and there I was, on my way to heed a call of nature, suddenly face to face with him. The malignant expression of his swarthy features and a quick glint of his dagger boded the only outcome for me. I was so terrified that I fired all bullets into him and kept pulling the trigger, my empty revolver clicking. It was the first man I killed.

I had lost patients on the operating table, but at that moment I took a life rather than trying to save one. I hadn’t thought much about it upon my joining the army, yet it was a usual situation at war: it’s either you or your enemy. My whole body was trembling as my comrades slapped me on the back, “Well done, well done, Watson. Thank God you got him, or he would’ve cut us up.”

With the course of time my hands stopped shaking as I killed. That’s the horror of it: humans are resilient creatures and have a remarkable ability to adapt. Two years later, when my regiment was shattered by the Ghazis, and we were fleeing in disarray, I was shooting without keeping count. I didn’t feel anything anymore except the overpowering desire to survive.

Sherlock held me and soothed me again until I drifted off into oblivion which was mercifully dreamless. He is still sleeping upstairs as I write, for it is very early. Today I have to step in for Anstruther who kindly replaced me yesterday, and there are my own patients to attend to.

According to the morning papers, Rigby turned himself in. He made a full confession, complete with the pawnbroker’s money and the mock pledge. I think society will be safer, but my heart goes out to his poor sister.

 

 _Follow-up.—_ Making the rounds continued until it was well past mid-afternoon (I shall not bother to list everyone I visited), so I didn’t have time to go home for lunch and got by with a hurried meal in a cafe, sorely missing Holmes’s comforting company. There was still a lot of work at hand to distract me from brooding, however. I was stuck in the surgery until eight, and then greatly relieved to be free at last. The tiresome day was over. At home there would be a hearty supper and snuggling with my Sherlock. Or so I thought.

Our sitting-room was dark, save for the dim light from the fireplace. A stale, putrid tobacco haze hung in the air which was barely breathable. I opened both windows and lit up the lamps. Holmes, who was stretched out on the settee, blinked languidly, shielding his eyes with his hand. He was pallid, unshaven, in his dressing-gown over his nightshirt. His violin was lying in a heap of crumpled newspapers on the floor, and on the coffee table there was the hateful morocco case. The small bottle beside it was almost empty. My skin went cold.

“Oh no, not again. Sherlock,” I gasped and touched his shoulder.

“It was all in vain,” he said in a colourless voice. “Seeking out the truth sometimes turns into a curse.”

“You always go until the very end, and nothing can stop you,” I said quietly, picked up his violin, and put it on the coffee table. “An amazing quality which I admire in you, but this is the other side of it.”

“Ah, John. You keep on giving, and I keep dragging you down. Save yourself. This relationship does you no good. You need a calm life and a well-balanced partner.”

“What outlandish nonsense. Sherlock, your mood swings will get less severe. We only need to work on that. It will be easier if you meet me halfway. Have you eaten anything at all today?”

“Better find yourself a lovely wife.”

An exasperated sigh was the only answer I could supply. I rang the bell, and then went out into the hall and called, “Mrs Hudson, supper, if you would be so kind.”

When I returned to the sitting-room, to my horror, he was filling the syringe with another dose.

“Put that down,” I hissed through my teeth. “Immediately.”

“Or what?” he scoffed.

“Sherlock!”

“You know, when we first made our living arrangements, it was you who objected to rows. Now you start them all the time. I told you then and I’m telling you now: let me be, and I’ll be all right.”

“The hell you will! What you’re doing to yourself is self-destructive!” I snatched the syringe from his hand and threw it into the fire.

He glared daggers at me, but I wouldn’t be unnerved, not this time, so I glared back. It incensed him even more.

“I’m sick and tired of your meddling, Doctor. What right have you to impose yourself on me with your lectures on how to live my life? It’s not as if you much succeeded in yours.”

“Sneer all you wish, I shall not stand by and condone this. You’ve got to respect your body lest it fail you eventually. I’m scared that one day you’ll overdose, and that I’ll find you too late. Please, Sherlock.”

For an instant it seemed that my earnestness resonated with him, but then he snorted dismissively.

“Pshaw, I haven’t so far, over ten years. If you think I will allow it to come to this, you must be really dim.”

My face felt hot, and my hand clenched into a fist. God, how I wanted to hit him, to punch out of him that criminal negligence, that pig-headed disregard of reason when it concerned his well-being.

“Come on then,” he growled and burst out in roaring laughter.

Manic fire was blazing in his eyes as he sprang to his feet and assumed a boxing stance. We circled around the room, our gazes locked, yet he was not attacking. Goading me gave him a perverse pleasure. The tension vibrating between us was sheer madness which had to be stopped. It took all my will-power not to lunge at him.

“You’re out of your mind, on dope,” I said in disgust and looked away. It was dangerous, with him in such a state, but I wouldn’t be the one to deliver the first blow.

Nervous energy drained from him. He lowered his hands and flung himself into his armchair. I rubbed my temples, quite exhausted too.

“You are always in search of mental exaltation,” I said after a pause. “I shall not comment on whether it is wise. However, aren’t there other ways to stimulate yourself? You do have diverse and rather obscure interests besides chemistry: medieval documents, Indo-European philology, motets, and what not.”

“Not captivating as it used to be,” Holmes muttered. “It doesn’t help.”

“What if you’re not trying hard enough?”

“Not trying?” he cried bitterly and fixed me with a stare. “Everyday life is so commonplace it’s unbearable. Waking up in the morning, having breakfast, reading newspapers, and doing all those things you’ve mentioned—it tends to get old pretty soon. Such existence is terribly boring. Even you, as much as I value your company, don’t really make a difference.”

I just gaped in reply. I didn’t know what to say, except, perhaps, that it was honest of him. There was no anger left in me. All I wanted to do at the moment was to be out of that house. So I turned, put on my overcoat, and picked up my hat and gloves. Fury gave way to despair. Unable to restrain my emotions any longer, I slammed the door behind me.

The pavement was very slippery, covered with a thin layer of ice, and I had forgotten my stick. My bad leg protested as I walked at a fast pace, so after a while I began to limp. As I wandered aimlessly, my agitation burned out, and the weight of the day crashed down on me again with the force increased tenfold.

It was bitterly cold. Yellow gaslight did little to dispel the freezing gloom of deserted streets. My shoulder was getting numb, and my stomach churned. I was already far from Baker Street, equally far from any restaurant in the vicinity, and too tired to cover a big distance. Suddenly, I heard a sound of a lonely four-wheeler coming from around the corner. By some miracle it was a cab. I hailed it and ordered the driver to take me to my club.

There finally I had a decent supper, a cigar, and a quiet nook to myself. Now that my nerves had calmed down and the pain in my leg had subsided, I could assess the situation more clearly.

Over the nine years we had been living under the same roof, we had never hit such a low point. Those horrid things he said... It wasn’t Sherlock’s true self. It was the condition he was in. His instability was growing at an alarming rate. Even if life with me was boring, so be it. If I went away as he suggested, and then something happened to him like it had to my brother, I simply wouldn’t be able to live with that. Besides, I didn’t want to go anywhere but home, and home was where he was. Home. Holmes.

From the club there was no trouble to arrange a cab, and I drove home. Mrs. Hudson met me in the hall.

“Oh, Dr. Watson, thank Heaven you’ve returned!” She flung up her hands. “I worried about you and still worry about Mr. Holmes.”

“How is he?” I asked, my heart beating faster.

“He was utterly crushed, Doctor. I went up with the meal on the tray as an excuse to check on him.

“‘Mr. Holmes,’ I said timidly. ‘Supper?’

“‘Y-yes, Mrs. Hudson, supper,’ he stammered, grabbed the tray from me like a madman, and dashed to the table.

“He ate well, although visibly pushing himself. Later, when I was clearing the table, he lay on the settee motionless, appearing to be asleep, but there was something eerie about his stillness. Well, at least he was breathing normally, and with that I made myself scarce.”

I couldn’t listen further and rushed to the sitting-room. Holmes was lying on the settee as he had, with his eyes closed. On the coffee table, next to his violin, there was another syringe and another bottle. Of course he had them. My blood turned to ice in my veins.

I sat down on the edge of the settee and felt his neck for a pulse. Thank God, it was there—somewhat rapid but steady. I sighed in relief. Then I got my medical bag to examine him properly. Aside from a slightly elevated temperature nothing was amiss. His respiration was normal, his pupils responsive, and his heartbeat regular. When I rolled him onto his side, his eyelashes fluttered, but his breathing remained deep and relaxed. I brought a blanket from his room, covered him, and caressed his cheek. He had to sleep it off. I put away the syringe and the bottle so that he wouldn’t be tempted upon waking up. It was half past one, and therefore I retired too, having assured Mrs. Hudson that Holmes was fine.

Yet, as worn out as I was, I was tossing and turning in bed. My mind kept running at full steam, refusing to rest. I remembered how we had bought this double bed in secret, had it delivered surreptitiously by parts, and spent three hours assembling it. We had picked the one which didn’t creak or make any other incriminating sounds. Certainly, our household knew—even a most careful couple cannot hide their relationship long from the people who serve them. But Mrs. Hudson, Jenny, and Billy were our trustworthy, staunchest allies, impervious to bribes or threats, of which, unfortunately, there had been attempts. Sherlock and I dealt with those, ensuring that our friends were safe, just as they did it for us. No document and no word ever left our house. Due to the unfair mores of society, we would always have to be on guard.

Steps on the stairs interrupted my brown study, the familiar tread I instantly recognised. The door opened, and Holmes walked in, a candle in his hand.

“John. John, are you asleep?” he whispered.

“No. How are you feeling?” I sat up.

Haltingly, Holmes approached, put the candle on the bedside table, and seated himself beside me. Eyes cast down, he reached for my hand in an awkward, jerky manner. His hand was clammy, and his complexion ashen. I moved closer, put my arms around him, and pulled him to myself. He clung to me, shivering in spite of the warmth in the room.

“Forgive me,” he choked.

I merely stroke his back to convey that I already have.

“I know that my predilection makes you unhappy. Hell, considering your family history, a friend, let alone a partner, with black moods and substance abuse must be like a red flag to you.” He sighed. “But I am what I am. In your novel you wrote about leaving Baker Street. Do you really want to?”

I groaned. That damned book. I had intended to protect us but triggered his fear of abandonment instead. I should have known it would affect him so. As much as I had gathered from his sparse mentions, he had lost both of his parents at a very young age, been separated from his brother for years since Mycroft had already been at the university while he was at a boarding school. Later, at college, there had been the only person he had opened up to except me. That man had ended their relationship rather abruptly. Just as I was going in circles in my private limbo, so was he in his own. I should have known.

“Oh, Sherlock. I could never leave you. I love you too much. I’d be worried out of my wits.”

He hid his face on my shoulder. I carded my fingers through his hair. The strain disappeared from his posture.

“When you went out I took another dose,” he said.

“I noticed,” I replied softly.

“I had an ugliest vision, John, of what my life would be like without you.” He lifted his head and looked into my eyes. “I’ve been an absolute imbecile. My behaviour towards you was monstrous. It’s true that life is commonplace, but there is no greater joy than sharing its every triviality with you. I got used to it, forgetting what a gift it was and what a blessing. Happiness is like good health: it stays unnoticed until it’s gone. From now on I shall try to give up narcotics. I foolishly presumed that they had no power over me, that I would discard them the moment I wished to. Now I’m not so sure.”

“We’ll fight it together, Sherlock,” I said, undeterred. “You, with your single-minded dedication, can achieve any goal you set for yourself.”

“You always believe in me,” he said, smiling sadly. “And you were incorrect in your assessment. Your objections, silent or otherwise, do have their results. They’ve been restraining me. If it wasn’t for you, drugs would’ve ruined me already.”

“You read my diary?”

“Oh, so you wrote about it, didn’t you?”

“Then you deduced my train of thoughts.”

“There’s nothing to deduce, my boy. Your features are most expressive.” He trailed his long, sensitive fingers down my cheek. “Also, you do have your rights on me. Firmer than the church and the government can give.”

I chuckled, took off my mother’s ring, and put it on his left little finger. He stared at it.

“John, no. You can’t possibly—it’s too precious to you.”

“So are you.”

For a moment his eyes were dimmed, and his lips trembled.

“Here’s a token of my vow to you,” he said. 

On the fourth finger of his right hand he wore a diamond ring of white gold, austere and elegant, presented by the reigning family of Holland. He was very proud of bringing their case to a successful conclusion. Sherlock slipped that ring off his finger and put it on mine. I placed my right hand side by side with his left, and we admired the sight. My mother’s ring was somewhat too snug for me, so it fit him perfectly. The ring from Holland was a bit loose on his finger, but on mine it was as if it had always been there.

We grinned at each other and, following the tradition, sealed our union with a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The case was loosely based on _Crime and Punishment_ , one of my favourite books. I had this idea of making a crossover and figuring out how Holmes and Watson would solve it.
> 
> Big thanks again to my wonderful beta **falsepremise**! Your help was invaluable.


End file.
